Imperfect
by speckledsparrow
Summary: "I'm promise going to make the best painting ever for your birthday, fratello!" Romano snorted. "Ya, ya, sure. Whatever you say." Veneziano would keep his promise at all costs. Implied Itacest if you look under a microscope, squint, and wish upon the first star you see. Character death.


"I'm promise going to make the best art piece ever for your birthday, fratello!"

Romano snorted. "Ya, ya, sure. Whatever you say."

* * *

><p>He could see the image, laid out in his mind.<p>

He could see it there, but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't get it down on canvas.

There was always one imperfection in the finished piece.

Unacceptable.

Perfection, perfection.

That's what he needed.

And he wouldn't stop painting until he achieved it.

* * *

><p>Even though Germany was at his locked studio door almost every hour, begging him to eat something.<p>

Even though Romano had picked the lock on the door and forced him out to "get some help".

Why did he need help? There wasn't anything wrong with him.

Wait, wait.

He was the one who created the paint- no, he could't call them that.

He was the one who created those _monstrosity's._ It was he who was imperfect.

Him.

Him.

HIMHIMHIMHIMHIM.

* * *

><p>He didn't like how France attempted to tell him that his art was beautiful.<p>

LIES! FILTHY LIES!

They where all liars, so he ran away.

* * *

><p>He didn't care that he was slowly killing himself with the cigarettes and the drinking, they distracted him from the thoughts, the plans going thousands of miles per an hour in his mind.<p>

After all, if painting wasn't the medium that could capture his idea, he had to keep trying to find the one that did.

Sculptures where crashed against the wall.

More paintings where burned.

Mosaics where shattered.

Sketch were ripped to shreds.

Nothing, NOTHING was working.

Keep trying, keep trying.

* * *

><p>Blue! Yellow! Orange!<p>

All these colors, and nothing!

Nothing!

Insane! He was going insane!

Perfection!

His blood craved for it, he needed it.

* * *

><p>He knew that the other countries where looking for him, but he wasn't hiding.<p>

Why should he hide?

He wasn't doing anything that he considered to be wrong, besides creating those monstrosities.

* * *

><p>He saw their horrified faces as they entered the home he had lived in for the past few months.<p>

Decapitated sculptures were littering the ground.

Ashes and canvases with holes punched in them were everywhere.

Broken tiles, snapped pencils, and torn paper carpeted the ground.

Every surface either had half-empty wine bottles, cigarettes, coffee mugs, or paints covering them.

And he knew he looked like a mess. He hadn't taken a bath or washed his cloths in weeks, and he couldn't remember the last time he shaved, slept, or even ate.

"Who had time for taking care of them self?

All he needed was to perfect his present.

He struggled as they pulled him out of there.

* * *

><p>The image was beginning to fade from his mind.<p>

Germany told him that he was "getting better".

Though how could he get better is it still wasn't perfect.

He was glad at least the other countries where happy about it though. He was miserable.

Tonight, before the image faded completely, he would try to paint the scene again.

* * *

><p>No! No!<p>

He had almost done it that time! He had almost perfected it!

Then his big brother had charged into his room and tackled him, screaming about not letting him start again.

In his struggle to escape, Romano had punched him and some blood from his nose had splattered onto the canvas.

He watched, transfixed at the shade of red that perfected blended with the scene.

Perfect! Why hadn't he thought of this medium before!

* * *

><p>As soon as Romano locked him in the bathroom, muttering something about calling England, Veneziano took his opportunity.<p>

He grabbed the razor on the counter and began slicing his flesh, trying to get that beautiful red blood.

As he smeared his blood across the pure white bathroom wall, he began to get light headed and felt kind of sick.

He shrugged it off, this was more important than his health after all.

* * *

><p>As he finished his perfect painting, he heard frantic knocking on the other side of the door.<p>

That knocking turned to kicks, and soon the door tumbled down.

To late, to late.

His brother was always just a bit to late.

"What the hell have you done, fratellino!"

Tears where dripping done his brothers face.

Why? Why did his big brother cry?

Why should he cry after he had finally finished the present he had promised him?

As darkness began to fall across his vision, his last image was of his painting, Nonno Rome with both Romano and Veneziano on his lap, the three of them smiling happily as Rome told them his myths and legends.

"I... finally fulfilled my promise... fre...tello."

And with that, the northern half of Italy let his long, long life end with his first smile in months on his face.

* * *

><p>Perfection.<p>

He wouldn't allow anything less for his brothers birthday present after all.


End file.
